Dear Thailand Committee on Self Esteem and Body Image,
I was recently in a yoga studio where I was asked to step on
a scale. The reaction of the other people (all Thai) implied that I should be
embarrassed about the number the scale displayed. Other days at this same studio, it is measuring and comparing waist, hip, and bust sizes.
I do not feel the need
to apologize for weighing 60 kilos. Nor am I in the least bit embarrassed by
that number or by the fact that I have a solid 10-15 kilos on every Thai lady
in my yoga class. I do not expect that as a woman in my late twenties I would have a 22 inch waist.
Yes, I am bigger than many Thai women. I probably always
will be.
There was a time when I thought that weight, that magic
number on the scale, meant something. At one point in my life, I gave it so
much value that it controlled nearly everything I ate and did. From the age of
12 until about 20, I couldn’t imagine weighing more than 100 pounds; 110 felt
like the end of the world. At one point during freshman year of college, I hit
a low of 85 pounds. At that time, in that pound-oriented mindset, I felt like
that was a glorious number.
But it didn’t feel healthy. I was frail and tired. I was
sick and weak. I was skinny, sure, but I was in no way healthy.
Today, at the age of 26, I apparently weigh around 135. I
might not be perfectly in shape – things might be bouncier or squishier than
“ideal” – but I am strong and healthy. I am certainly not stick-thin, but by
most standards, especially my own, I am not overweight.
Being healthy does not require washboard abs, sculpted arms, or cellulite-free thighs. I would rather be the version of healthy that
I embody right now than be super-skinny, have those perfect body parts, and
constantly criticize everything I do and every morsel I consume. I no longer have
the desire for my hipbones or collarbones to protrude, for my thighs not to touch,
or for my arms to be 100% jiggle-free.
Now, I do not necessarily agree wholeheartedly with the
American adage about accepting yourself just the way you are; too often it
becomes an excuse for apathy, laziness, and inertia. I accept myself, and this
means accepting that in many ways I can be better. I can be nicer, kinder, more
understanding; I can work harder, learn more, and find ways to step out of my
comfort zone. I can be stronger, eat better, push myself to try things toward
which I am not naturally inclined or gifted. But these days, I push myself to
be better without criticizing that which needs to be changed.
Hear me: not only am I not ashamed of my 60 kilos. I’m damn
proud of them. They took fortitude to acquire, perseverance to develop. They
come from strength and confidence, rather than self-denial and insecurity. I am proud that I sometimes allow myself to overindulge,
proud of my 3-second handstand, proud of almost being able to run a half mile.
I am proud to know that, with work and a positive attitude, I can push three seconds to four and
half a mile to a whole mile. And if in the process my thighs or arms get bigger, so be it. I am proud, most of all, that a number doesn’t
define whether or not I think I am beautiful.
So, Thailand, stop patting my belly and pinching my arm fat.
Stop asking if I am pregnant. Stop covering the scale readout. This is me, all
135 glorious, healthy pounds of me. And, I will not let you make me feel bad
about who I am or how I look.
Sincerely,
disgruntled but ever-loving foreigner
*While I realize how many of these same arguments can be
applied to American culture’s standards of beauty, Thailand is particularly
blunt and graceless when it comes to social treatment of body size and
standards of beauty.